


Daily Double

by Argyle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Ficlet, Fluff, Grand National, Horse Racing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Man is a gaming animal.  He must always be trying to get the better in something or other. </i> - Charles Lamb</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daily Double

"You're wrong," says Sherlock. "I don't find it the least bit interesting."

John looks up from the neat, folded newsprint and the scratch sheet to the side: listings and hand-jotted notes _re:_ the National. "Sorry?" he asks, and that's a habit he really ought to shirk, toss out, delete, because Sherlock isn't owed an apology. Then John sets down his biro. He folds his hands before him. And he smiles, quite beatifically (isn't it always so), if a little tiredly as well. Then: "Stop going on like you can read my mind."

"Read it? No."

"Then what--"

"Howitzer, unremarkable bay gelding, odds of 20-1. Jockeyed by Sam Bucknell. Purported sciatica, not to mention well over the average age of victors in his riding class. You'd do better with Carry On Lads."

John lets out a short laugh. "Sherlock, that one's 90-1. Just because you're content to squander your earnings on whatever flight of fancy's caught your eye this week doesn't mean I have to as well."

"The distilling configuration is hardly a _flight_."

"I'm not talking about the distilling configuration. You stole that from St Bart's. But the harmonium?"

Sherlock ignores him. The harmonium is relevant, as John should have discovered by now, or would do if he'd give up the ghost on this fucking horse racing lark. But the argument's already an old one. Instead, Sherlock says, "Carry On Lads, grey AQPS. A hitherto inconsequential career set to turn decidedly favourable. His rider will take him in with twenty lengths to spare."

"How the hell can you know that?" John slides back in his chair, and his tawny jumper rucks up about his waist. Sherlock can just make out the clean white line of his vest. He flicks his gaze between John's belly and John's eyes -- purplish round the lids, he really _hasn't_ been sleeping well, but still wide and comprehending and unmistakably familiar -- and all the while John's grumbling goes on and on: "And you really mean to tell me horse racing isn't interesting to you? If you know _this_ like the back of your hand, I'd hate to hazard a guess at what would happen if you found a sport you really fancy."

"Would you really?" Sherlock drawls. John can be damnably thick when it suits him.

But thankfully, Sherlock has a remedy. He's already almost naked, a handy thing indeed, and a short shrug sends his dressing gown into a pool on the sofa cushion. The air in the flat is cooler than he likes (Mrs Hudson still hasn't brought a man round to repair the windowpane Sherlock graciously sent a boot through two days ago), and all the exposed skin of his chest and upper arms immediately prickles into gooseflesh.

There it is: the pink tip of John's tongue dashing out between his lips. Sherlock can surmise from previous average that it will take an even nineteen seconds for John to be up out of his chair and across the room.

_Sixteen, fifteen._

John's eyes have gone a bit dark, but he's still seated. Damn him, what could it be now?

_Thirteen, twelve, eleven._

"Tell me, Sherlock. How d'you know who's going to win the Grand National?"

Sherlock's mouth twitches into a half-smile, a movement so well used of late as to have become involuntary. He schools it back into a scowl.

John presses, "Mycroft, yeah?"

"No," Sherlock says. Then: "I never said Carry On Lads will win."

"You said I'd be better off with it."

"Yes."

And it's been nineteen seconds twice-over. John still hasn't budged, but his breathing's quickened, grown shallow, and it's obvious, so fiendishly obvious that he wants nothing better than to have Sherlock right now, here.

Sherlock beelines for his bedroom.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, d'you really... Oh, for heaven's sake."

Previous average suggests that it will take no less than three minutes for John to follow him in -- pride is such a tedious thing. Well. No. Pride is tedious when it isn't Sherlock's.

But Sherlock is also a betting man. He's willing to wager the good doctor will take only two. He settles back onto the coverlet, ticks off the seconds, and smiles at the ceiling. Then he hears John's chair scrape back on the hardwood, the sound soft, as though each inch has been advanced with care.

"Ah, that's just the thing for it," Sherlock sing-songs, steepling his fingers before him. "Odds are shy things, susceptible to coup d'état. Tell me: what will you do with the winnings?"

John doesn't linger in the doorway. In a moment, he's perched on the bed beside Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock helps with the jumper-- or attempts to, feebly, without rising. John bats his hands away and peels the horrid thing off in a great, graceful shrug. He leans in for a kiss. And, laughing: "A new bed, to start. One with all the springs intact."

"Boring," says Sherlock, because he likes his bed with its squeaky springs. He likes the repetitive squish of them when he and John fuck, and he likes to know when John's on the move, up and headed for the loo, to fetch breakfast, or in any event somewhere that isn't flush and hot against Sherlock's back. He likes advance notice that it's time to hold John all the tighter.

John grins. Off comes his vest, his trousers and socks. "Come on. We could get a king mattress. Imagine the things we could try with that sort of space, hmm?"

"Mm." Sherlock finds his way to John's abdomen, and he rests there a moment, his nose and mouth pressed to John's taut heat. A deep breath, then: "Bet on Howitzer."

"What? You said his rider has sciatica."

"No, I didn't," says Sherlock. He pulls John down to him and kisses him soundly. "I said it's purported."


End file.
